Today, I stand against my god



Today, I stand against my god

I am an old man. Not in body, but in spirit. At the immature age of thirty: I’ve fought against the malignancies of the world, step by step, steadfast of the terror of the noose. How that noose beckons my tongue, its flavor known to many of my kin: but never have I shattered to its promises. My mother, rotted by the repercussions of a life led by dead promises and decayed dreams, often swam in the management of inimical poisons. My son, haunted by the calamity of his mother’s gnarled fate, accustomed his body with opiates. One day, he spoiled himself over the edge of oblivion. My father, an author of senior age, was shot a copious amount of times in the chest by a man of weakness and abasement. He died for the money in his pocket; a meager twelve bucks. My greatest friend, a man of renaissances and talent, was forced to take up arms. Hearsay says he took his last breath in a pit of silt and blood. A misuse of a soul; fought in a war we had no place in. But what has driven me to the alter of god one last time isn’t the promises that I may see my family once more after my demise: it is to curse those who’ve destroyed my wife’s work and violated her ambitions.

Sarah was an elegant woman. Her laugh would echo in the ear of any man she would host in conversation. Her tears halted anyone’s urge to carry forward until her sadness ceased. Her eyes were akin to the night sky as her body flowed like the oceans of a typhoon. We found each other at a luncheon hosted by the University I was an undergraduate at. I was producing drugs that abetted victims of amputations. She was a lead analyst for a program that researched the cure to cancer. From what I’ve heard, her team was so close. The body’s hiccups were to finally be ailed, the demon banished. Every night she fell asleep with the taste of triumph barely on her tongue. Every night I dozed to the ramblings of a brilliant mind, as I woke to the sounds of a dream almost realized. But cancer is an ever-present beast, lurking in all of us; waiting to be revealed. We were blissfully enjoying our second-year of marriage when the news was disclosed to us. She had fat tumor, lodged on top her pancreas. The doctor gave her four months, only to last three. That night, the night I lost the only one left in my world, I gazed onto the heavens and cursed god for the first time in my life. How dare he slay one of his own children in such an agonizing tone. How dare he end the life of who was to quench the suffering of countless of his children.

I walked up to the grand symbol, one that had harbored millions of previous eyes. Blameless eyes, eyes with no other resort. This was a place where men came to lay their sins onto a father, to discharge their life of immoralities, to fill their hearts and minds with hope. But I wasn’t there to give up my sins. I wasn’t there to absorb hope. I was here to maledict my tormentor. I brought myself to my knees and looked up into the wood carving of the symbol. Closing my eyes, I began a tremendous monologue. I prayed of many things that evening. I thought of my mother and her enslavement to commercially produced demons. I spoke of my father, whose killer was still unhinged. I spoke of my son, a child taken from me in the wake of her loss. Finally, I spoke of my wife. An angel slain by her own father. How was it fair? How was it fair that a woman could spend her entire life trying to defeat an undefeatable beast just to be burden by the same set of jaws? What righteous being can look upon his own creations with such black humor? “I curse you, my god, for you are an evil being. A being of torment and malice, you walk across our world without proper ambition or constitution. Without reason or elegance. Why should I be loyal to such a foul deity? What kind soul would expect me to kiss the feet of such a monster?” This went on for quite a time, as my brain resorted to lost synonyms to construct arguments I knew would fall on absent ears. But as all things must end, so did my soliloquy. My eyes were open and following the grain of the wooden structure when I heard it.

“Fie.”

I twisted around to inspect the chapel, to find nothing. Not a soul to bellow the term. I stayed for a moment, not daring to free my breath in fear I would miss some development.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

I came to my feet, bewildered by the sudden statement. After a minute or so, I abandoned my investigation; for I had little time to get rest for a visit I had tomorrow with the doctor. You see, I had started coughing up blood just a week earlier. Hopefully, it is just a passing sickness, and nothing more

Submitted July 10, 2018 at 10:01AM by ScatterBrained223


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